


At Highclere

by flippyspoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Humor, M/M, Meta, Modern Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippyspoon/pseuds/flippyspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy Kent makes a begrudging visit to Highclere Castle.  He hates Downton Abbey, but he is quite fond of the manor's handsome tour guide...</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Highclere

Jimmy was bored. When his mates had suggested a motoring trip around the North Country, Jimmy had imagined hopping from pub to pub, perhaps lazing around in the grass of some beautiful countryside spot, smoking up… Not tours of old estates. Not bloody antiquing.

He grimaced at the stately old manor as Alfie rambled on about architecture and history and how many chefs the place likely employed.

“Bloody hell, Alfie,” Jimmy grumbled. “You’re a bigger poof than I am. And you’re not even a poof.”

“Hey, it took a lot of foresight to get a tour here, ya know,” Alfie argued, looming over him. “This is Highclere Castle. They shoot Downton Abbey here.”

“If you start up on Downton again, I’m going to have to kill you,” Jimmy said, glaring. He glanced around, looking for his ex. Taking his ex-boyfriend along had not been a wise idea. But the man was going through a rough time and Jimmy had thought it would be nice to make peace. “Where did… Where the fuck is Jeffrey?”

Alfie squinted and nodded in the direction of some rose bushes. They were lingering in the gardens. Jimmy was putting off the inevitable guided tour. It would be his third that week. They usually gave him a strong desire to stab himself in the eye with a sterling silver bouillon spoon.

“I think he’s talking to a flower,” Alfie said.

Jimmy turned and followed Alfie’s line of vision. Yes, there Jeffrey was, kneeling down before a wilting pink rose and pretending to talk it into blooming. He looked good enough anyway; decked out in skinny grey trousers, a white button down, and a black tie. His mod phase, according to Jeffrey’s own diagnosis.

“At least he’s back on the meds,” Jimmy muttered.

“That’s what he’s like when he’s  _on_  the meds?” Alfie said.

“Yeh, and if I were you, I’d thank my lucky stars.”

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Will appeared seemingly from nowhere and punched Alfie on the shoulder. “It looks just like it does on the show!”

Jimmy sighed dramatically. “Oh God, you too? What is it about that bloody show?”

“You just don’t like it ‘cause it hasn’t got any gay characters,” Will cracked.

“Oh, fuck you very much,” Jimmy said. “It’s dull is all.”

“Are we goin’ in or what?” Alfie said, glancing at his watch. “There’s a tour starting in five.”

“Do we have to?” Jimmy said, groaning in a manner even he could admit was childish. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Truthfully, he felt a little underdressed. Even Alfie and Will were in button downs and pressed trousers, as if they were auditioning for their favorite show instead of merely seeing its shooting location. Jimmy was only wearing his usual v-neck tee (because it was warm enough not to be wearing a jumper and he looked fucking good in it to boot) and jeans, though he had spent forty-five minutes perfecting the “post-sex hair” look that he had turned into an art form.

“Oh, you all can go along!” Jeffrey chirped from his spot at the rose bush. “I’m having a spiritual moment! I am one with the universe!”

“You want to go with him or us?” Will said knowingly.

Jimmy curled his lip in Jeffrey’s direction. “Ah… Fine. I do hate you all though.”

 

Jimmy stood in the great front hall of the great house in all its greatness, his arms crossed, and his mouth twisted in frustration. The tour guide was already five minutes late and Jimmy was beyond bored. Alfie and Will didn’t seem to mind a bit. The three of them stood off to the side, avoiding the close knit cluster of tourists gawking at the chandeliers and marble floors.

“I hope we see Lady Mary’s bedroom!” Alfie chirped. “Where Pamuk died!”

“I never understood how Pamuk knew where her bedroom was,” Will said.

“O’Brien told him,” Alfie said, as if he were an idiot.

“Oh yeah. But  _why_?”  
“Just to be evil.”

“Weak writing, that,” Will said, shaking his head.

“Which one’s Pamuk?” Jimmy said, begrudgingly joining the conversation.

“The one you said you’d shag six ways to Sunday,” Alfie said.

“Ooooh.” Jimmy grinned as the beautiful face of Theo James appeared in his head. “Yeh. Well, it’s a stupid show then if it killed  _him_  off.”

“O’Brien needs a sidekick,” Will was muttering. “Like a conniving footman or somethin’. Someone like-”

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” a smooth voice intoned across the hall. “I apologize for my tardiness. My name is Thomas…”

Jimmy was glaring down at his shoes and mumbled, “Yeh, he’d better apologize…” But when he looked up he lost his smirk.

The tour guide standing at the front of the crowd was gorgeous. Not untouchably beautiful like that Theo James, and not a pretty boy like Jimmy knew  _he_  was. No, this bloke was just fucking handsome; all cheekbones and a mouth that gave Jimmy the urge to go to church everyday just to say thank you. His black hair was a touch shaggy and a stubborn raven lock kept falling over his left eye, even as he tried to brush it back repeatedly. And speaking of those eyes… Those eyes were…

“Look at you,” Alfie whispered, giggling. “Must be love.”

Jimmy realized his mouth was open. He must look like a fish. He shut it and elbowed Alfie hard in the ribs. “Twat!” He hissed. Only he said it far too loud in the cavernous hallway and it echoed.

Everyone turned to gape at him.

Jimmy said, “Uh.”

The tour guide’s ridiculous blue eyes fell on him. Thomas’s eyes. Thomas smiled slyly. “And on  _that_ note, let us begin our tour.”

Jimmy trudged on, mortified. Alfie and Will were still cackling even as Thomas started talking about this or that vase and that or this tapestry. Jimmy was still blushing, he was so embarrassed. He hung on Thomas’s every word. Thomas seemed utterly bored by his own tour, but as he pointed to paintings and accent chairs, Jimmy eyed him up and down. Yes, he was quite fit. When he turned around, gesturing to a tapestry, Jimmy checked out his arse. Lovely indeed in black trousers that were just tight enough to spawn a thousand naughty fantasies.

“And uh…that eh…lamp. That’s a genuine Tiffany lamp. It’s old. The floors right through here were redone in 1991 because _that’s_ interestin’.”

The bulk of the crowd being straight-faced middle-aged tourists; they murmured dissent amongst themselves. But Jimmy snorted a laugh and Thomas’s eyes alighted on him again. Jimmy saw him smirk.

“If you’ll all just follow me into the saloon…”

Jimmy, as subtly as possible, prodded Alfie and Will to the front of the crowd, so as to be closer to Thomas the Bloody Gorgeous Tour Guide.

In the saloon, Thomas sighed deeply. His eyes heavy with sardonic weariness, he said, “So…who here is a fan of Downton Abbey?”

The crowd, excepting Jimmy, clapped and cooed and raised their hands.

Jimmy kept his arms crossed.

Thomas noticed this. “Are you not a fan, sir?” Thomas said to him.

Blood rushed to Jimmy’s cheeks. But he wasn’t stupid. Thomas obviously hated his job. Something they had in common. Jimmy hated Thomas’s job too.

“Ah, no,” Jimmy said. “Not for me.”

“Well, you have excellent taste then,” Thomas said smoothly, and Jimmy did not miss the way those eyes took him in. “It’s a ridiculous soap that requires an immense suspension of disbelief and nostalgia for an outdated class system. Although that Allen Leech is pretty fit, I’ll give em’ that.”

 _Well, if that wasn’t a signal_ , Jimmy thought, _I don’t know what is._

The crowd gasped and growled in displeasure.

“ITV doesn’t pay me,” Thomas said dryly. “There’s such a thing as free speech. I can say what I like down here. Now come this way and I’ll show you the very spot where Matthew Crawley miraculously started walkin’ after having been paralyzed, possibly by means of magical fairy dust.”

At the end of the tour, Thomas clasped his hands in front of him and said, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your tour of Highclere Castle. Feel free to walk the grounds. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a fag in the courtyard because it’s been an hour and I think my head might explode.”

It did not escape Jimmy’s notice that Thomas looked straight at  _him_  as he spoke.

Jimmy wasted no time, although he lost Thomas in the labyrinthine hallways. He finally located the exit out to the courtyard. He found Thomas in a dark corner, smoking. Jimmy wondered if he sucked on his cigarette that way just to make his cheek bones stand out.

And what else could he suck on, one wondered.

Jimmy tossed him a nod and bit his lip. “Ah, hello…”

Thomas’s pretty eyes lit up and he smiled, shyly this time, the attitude melting away. “Well, if it isn’t the TV critic.”

Jimmy chortled and carded a hand through his hair. “I’m no critic. I don’t watch much telly at all outside football. I-I’ve seen it though. Downton, I mean. My mates always have it on.”

“Ha, that’s what they all say.”

“You obviously watch it.”

“Can’t get away from it here,” Thomas said with a shrug. “And technically, it  _is_ paying the bills.”

Jimmy ambled closer and fidgeted, he thrust his hands in his pockets. The damn things were actually  _shaking_. “So if you were on the show, what sort would you be? Some gentleman? An heir or a duke?”

“Me?” Thomas’s eyes roved over Jimmy. “No, I’d be downstairs. A footman. Or no, a valet. Then I could get paid to take blokes’ clothes off.”

 _You can take my clothes off right now_ , Jimmy wanted to say. But he didn’t have that kind of nerve.

“Ha, well, I’m a waiter,” Jimmy said. “So I’m practically a footman already. Would you be a good guy then?” He took another hesitant step closer. Too close for it not to mean something.

“No,” Thomas said quietly. “A villain. Definitely. An evil gay valet. That show needs a little excitement. Or maybe not evil, just misunderstood.”

Jimmy tittered and shoved his fists deep in his pockets so that his jeans rode down a little. It was a purposeful move; he knew it would make a strip of stomach show. And he well knew how good his stomach looked. He looked away when Thomas glanced down at that bit of skin.

“Ha,” Jimmy laughed, but he was nervous. “It was illegal then, ya know. Fuck, if I was on the show I’d probably be some closet case who was all terrified of his feelings. Heh.”

“Oh, I like that,” Thomas said, raising his eyebrows. He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned in a little. “That’s good drama, that. We should write to Julian Fellowes.”

“Haha.” Jimmy laughed again and swallowed. His blood felt electric.

 _Why can I never make the move?_  He thought.  _He’s into me, it’s obvious._

Thomas said, “So, are you goin’ to kiss me or just stand there with that just-got-shagged hair of yours?”

Jimmy felt light headed and he all but fell forward into Thomas as their lips met. Thomas’s mouth was just as lovely as Jimmy had hoped it would be and his tongue was even better. He rested his hands at Thomas’s waist and pushed him back gently, into the brick wall behind them.

“Hmm,” Thomas hummed and ran his hands down Jimmy’s t-shirted chest. “You’re fucking beautiful, you.”

Jimmy blushed again. Which was barmy. A hundred men and twice as many hapless women had told him at one point or another how good-looking he was, but somehow when Thomas, a total stranger said it, it felt like something he’d never heard before.

Feeling daring, Jimmy’s hands wandered down to Thomas’s arse and squeezed.

Thomas gasped and he nipped at Jimmy’s ear. “Ah, you naughty little footman. Come here…”

Thomas led him around a corner and into a shaded cove where there was a beaten up old chaise lounge just sitting there amongst some wood tables.

“Unofficial break room,” Thomas explained. “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”

“I’m Jimmy. Jimmy Kent.”

“Thomas Barrow,” Thomas said, and when he stuck his hand out for Jimmy to shake, Jimmy pulled him close again and kissed him hard. “Hmmmm….” Thomas pulled them back and down onto the dusty old pink chaise. “I don’t usually do this,” Thomas muttered between kisses.

Jimmy grinned. “That’s what they all say.”

Jimmy straddled him on the chaise and ground their cocks together; through their trousers it was painfully glorious.

“I don’t usually do this either,” Jimmy mumbled into Thomas’s neck. “Just to be clear.”

“What? Rutting with tour guides at Highclere? I wouldn’t think so. I would’ve seen you before.”

“Mmm, no…ah!” Jimmy bit into Thomas’s shoulder. “Gyaaaaa…mmm…I mean…my ex is wandering around the …uh…garden!”

Thomas hands slipped into Jimmy’s pants and massaged his bum. “Is he? Sounds complicated.”

“It is…oh!” Jimmy had Thomas’s button down untucked and he spread his fingers wide over Thomas’s pectorals. “He’s…bipolar… Bad breakup.” He ground harder into Thomas, finding the perfect rhythm.

“Well, let’s forget about him, shall we?”

“Yeah, good idea. Oh  _God_.”

Jimmy was embarrassed for the fifth or sixth time inside an hour when he came all too quickly, making a silly keening noise. Thomas laughed and Jimmy felt it in his chest. He slid his hand into Thomas’s pants.

“Hoooo….” Thomas breathed. “Uh…yeah…”

They gazed at each other as Jimmy stroked him. He nuzzled Thomas’s cheek. Thomas arched up and kissed his face absentmindedly. He fisted his hands in Jimmy’s hair. “Oh God, you’re so lovely, you’re so… ah!” Thomas arched up again, his muscles all clenched; their hot breath mingling. When Thomas relaxed, Jimmy rested on top of him, burying his mouth in Thomas’s neck again. After a couple minutes of silence, Thomas finally said, “Um… So uh, where do you live anyway?”

Jimmy grinned, mischievous. “Why? You going to stalk me, you sex pest?”

“Fuck yes,” Thomas said. “I am a villain.”


End file.
